Arundel Cottage
by Dogwood12
Summary: Arundel Cottage has seen so much. The Penderwicks.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: The Penderwicks is Jeanne Birdsall's creation, not mine.**

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Arundel Cottage has seen much. It notices much. Of course, only few have ever bothered to ask it what it has seen. Has it ever given them an answer? Who knows? It has seen much laughter, and much sadness. A poetic narrator to be sure, but it's hard to tell such stories, chain reaction stories filled with little, unimportant, beautiful details.

It's everything a cottage should be. Small, snug and cozy. A creamy, buttery, melting sort of yellow. A front porch for leisure, trees for shade, and climbing roses for charm. Not that it needs it. It's the most charming place most people will see in their life. Its interior is the type that appeals to those who deserve it. Not modern, not exactly elegant either. When it comes to Arundel Cottage, people's tastes don't matter. They're divided into two categories. There are those who love it, and those who don't. It's impossible to be indifferent of it.

There was a time when people came and went all the time. It was festive. And tiring. They would leave at three in the afternoon for tea, and come back at three in the morning, only to leave again four hours later for breakfast. Despite the constant flow of people, it was lonely.

When it was empty, Arundel Cottage could hear the music, see the lanterns over the hedge. It hated the people who went in and out, treating it like another closet to hold things, another bed to sleep in, just a bridge between one party and another. It hated hating things too. There were only a few people who were different. Few and far between, perhaps, but nonetheless.

The first one came with a group. Going off to the evening party, he stayed in the house. Dark hair, crinkled smiling eyes, and the dirtiest fingers Arundel Cottage has ever seen. Silver, grey, black finger tips. When the others were gone, he had sat on the porch with a pad of cream paper, focusing his glass shielded eyes on one place and proceeded to make his fingers dirtier; and to create a mirror for the cottage on paper. That was the first asker. He drew the longing, the loneliness and the bitterness. Whether he knew all those feelings were there or not, who knows? But the cottage saw them in that reflection.

The second one wasn't half so artistic. An introvert undoubtedly. He stayed up in the attic, looking out the window. He felt a longing, to go out to the party, to be some other person, a bright, extroverted person. He felt rueful, proud, and longing. It was a feeling that Arundel Cottage could share.

The third one actually did go to the party. An hour later she came back and sat down at the desk, still dressed in a silk ball gown, and the empty attic was filled with clicks and clacks of typewriter keys. Years later, a young girl would sit in this same room and fantasize about a writer being in that room. For once, her "senses" were right. There had been an author there. Perhaps not a famous one, not as famous as that fantasizing girl would be, but a good one. And so Arundel Cottage went down in print for the first time.

Then the parties stopped. No one visited the cottage. Perhaps once a year, someone would come and dust and clean, and then leave again. Seasons rotated, as did the gardeners, the birds, the flowers, the frogs.

Then a young man came to stay and Arundel Cottage rose and shook itself free of its foggy bitterness.

Green eyes, freckles and messy brown hair. It was when he stayed, that the cottage had music inside it. Not watching from a distance, but inside it. A haunting, roaming saxophone that left an echo even after that young man was long gone.

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	2. Chapter 2

"I love you."

Whispered into the shadows like a secret.

"I love you." The man whispered again. No on to hear it but the cottage with its tired eyes and unlit corners.

"I know you can't hear me but I love you. I will always love you. I promise that." But it didn't sound much like promise. Just a reassurance of something the man was trying to protect.

He lay on the couch and stared up at the ceiling, sighing to the night and the silence. The cottage was surprised that the man had even allowed that subtle, suffocating silence into the house. He did not try and drive it away as he had before, crooning some dusty melody that smelled of damp dirt. Like burgundy and black and blue. He played it the same way he sometimes said _her _name.

"Brenda." He said it like a forgotten prayer. Soft, reverent, once bathed in pale light but now falling into a lost darkness.

_Brenda._

It settled into the dusty muffled empty.

Then the silence again. Nothing but heavy, tired breath and eyes that looked straight up. Wide and green and filled with something so raw and misty that the cottage could not understand.

His dreams that night were unclear and filled with ribbons of pain. When he awoke, the tepid sunshine seemed like the doomsday illumination of a tomb. He found himself drawn up. Turned on the shower and let everything slide away under the water. He did not sing like he usually did. Just listened to the echo – an illusion of rain. Then he combed his hair which could not be combed and put on his clothes which still held the scent of _her _purple-smelling perfume.

He could not breathe it in. It was like a toxin of memories he did not wish to awake.

A knock at the door.

The man went to open it.

Standing on the doorstep was an old man. He held himself up tall, straight backed and severe.

"You will have to leave now" His voice was low. Very low and unforgiving.

"I love her." The young man rasped. It was soft and pained.

"I will compensate."

Out came the black checkbook and the fancy blue pen.

"I cannot accept you. My love is not so easily sold."

"Young man. You have no idea the pain you are causing my daughter."

"Really?" The young man paused, his green eyes drew up. "Really? Brenda wants me to leave?"

"Yes." Dignified. Emotionless.

Green eyes met gray and held very steady for a very long time.

"All right. If that's what she wants then I will leave. But only for her."

A piece of paper, held out to the young man. There was already another signature, slanted and elegant. _Brenda Framley. _The man took the paper in his hand and looked at it, not reading. He took the fancy blue pen and signed it. _Alec McGrath._

"Thank you. I appreciate it." The old man nodded.

"I don't want your thanks." Long fingers balled up in a tight fist.

"I bid you farewell. I hope you will leave by noon."

"Don't worry. I will." The young man hesitated. "Tell Brenda –" He shook his head. "Never mind."

_I love you. _Those whispered echoes still lay around in the house. _Brenda. I love you. _A broken promise. Not to her, but to himself.

"Goodbye." A strict nod.

The door swung closed.

The young man followed orders. He was gone by noon. The cottage fell back into the silence. But secrets still cluttered in corners. Promises broken and loves lost and everything drawn up in darkness until a group of girls came to shake them away and fill the rooms with sunshine.


End file.
